3
Areas of Tension
Alicia
Lying has become a way of life for me. After doing it practically all the time and in front of everyone, lying has become so ingrained in my daily routine that it seems completely normal to me.
A subtle gesture of suppressed pain as I step down from the team bus.
A grimace of poorly concealed anger as I get up from the bench after halftime.
Or that sneaky habit—almost automatic by now—of putting much more weight on my right leg as soon as I notice no one is watching me.
I’ve learned to live with the constant pain just as one learns to live with an ugly scar: first you rebel against it in anger, then you come to terms with it out of sheer resignation, and in the end, you accept that it’s an inseparable part of who you are.
My left knee has been setting off fireworks for months on end, reminding me that the body always—sooner or later—ends up collecting the price for being pushed too hard.
I brush off the nighttime cramps, the sharp twinges, the numbness when I get cold; I flat-out refuse to listen to my body’s warnings because I know perfectly well what will happen if I stop to pay attention to them.
I’m no fool. In this circus of professional soccer, it doesn’t matter a damn how much you’ve given in the past, or how many decisive matches you’ve saved with a spectacular goal a second before the final whistle, or how many times you’ve carried an entire team on your back.
All that matters here is how much you can continue to produce in the present.
Immediate performance. Damn utility. If you stop being useful on the scoreboard, you cease to exist for the club.
That’s how this business works. It’s always worked that way.
And I have absolutely no intention of becoming another one of those brilliant forwards whose athletic careers are cut short far too soon.
Not after everything I’ve sacrificed since I was a little girl. Not now that I’m at the top.
The day has barely begun, and I find myself alone in the recovery gym at the training complex, finishing up a grueling functional training session.
In theory, all of this is supposed to help me better adapt to the physical demands of the English team, though both the club and I know full well that it’s nothing more than an elegant and subtle way to keep a close eye on me.
Ravenhill FC isn’t investing a record-breaking sum in a forward like me only to discover right away that they’ve bought defective merchandise.
The pungent smell of rubber flooring, industrial disinfectant, and athletes’ sweat permeates every corner of the room.
Outside, as usual, it’s raining with an almost depressing persistence; the constant patter of raindrops pounding against the huge glass windows accompanies the monotonous hum of the treadmills and the distant echo of the first team’s training session, which is taking place under the downpour on the outdoor field.
I plop down onto a weight bench, dragging a damp towel across my neck to wipe away the sweat.
My left knee is throbbing right now with a dull, deep, persistent, and damn painful ache.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a few seconds, rest my forearms on my thighs, and breathe very slowly through my mouth, trying to control that burning twinge that shoots straight up from the joint to my hip and spreads throughout my leg like an electric current.
“If you keep ignoring it like that, I guarantee the swelling isn’t going to magically disappear, Alicia.”
I snap my eyes open without even needing to turn around to know who it is. Clara has the innate and incredibly irritating ability to always show up with a confident stride and exude overwhelming self-assurance.
“Well, what a disappointment,” I murmur under my breath, keeping my head down for a couple of seconds before sitting up to look at her. “I was starting to get my hopes up and think you’d give me a little break today, Doctor.”
Clara is leaning cockily against the aluminum doorframe, holding a black leather folder in her hands.
She looks impeccable, as always: she’s wearing black leggings that highlight her stunning legs, perfectly paired with the club’s official polo shirt, her dark hair pulled back into her now-classic low ponytail, and that serene, analytical, mysterious expression that seems to have been designed in a lab to disarm professional liars like me.
She’s absurdly attractive—it’s impossible to miss—and that’s probably the most offensive and unsettling part of this whole situation.
She flashes a subtle, lopsided smile—just enough to make it crystal clear to me that this is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a friendly smile.
“I had much higher expectations for our session this morning, too—don’t get the wrong idea,” she replies with a calmness that drives me up the wall.
“Well, that’s a real shame. I’m afraid you’re going to have to learn to live with frustration day in and day out, Clara.”
She walks into the gym without deigning to answer me, moving with that elegant poise that comes from her absolute control over any situation.
She stops right in front of my bench, just a few centimeters from my knees, and fixes me with a gaze so intense that I feel as if she’s X-raying me right through my skin.
I don’t like it one bit. Well, actually, it’s not that I don’t like it…
it’s that it scares the hell out of me. Because Clara isn’t like the other doctors I’ve met in my career.
She doesn’t get dazzled by the cover star; she sees right through to the cracks underneath.
And that makes me terribly uncomfortable.
“We need to repeat the physical and mobility assessment right now,” she says at last, slamming the folder down on the nearest exam table with a sharp thud.
I raise an eyebrow sarcastically, looking up at her defiantly as I put my hands on my hips.
“Oh, really? What’s the matter? Does the great head of Ravenhill’s medical team not fully trust her own preliminary conclusions from yesterday?”
The line comes out with the precision of a well-practiced left jab. A preemptive strike to mark my territory: my specialty. I can clearly see her jaw tense by barely a millimeter. Good. Count that as a small psychological victory for me, brunette.
“I have complete and absolute confidence in every one of my clinical conclusions,” she replies, crossing her arms over her chest and stiffening her posture even further. “The only piece of this puzzle that doesn’t inspire the slightest confidence in me is you, Alicia.”
I stand up very slowly, clenching my teeth to ignore the immediate, sharp pain that shoots through my knee as I straighten the joint. The movement brings me so close to her that I can almost feel the heat radiating from her body.
“Hey, put that way, with that suggestive voice of yours, it almost sounds romantic,” I say sarcastically, casting a cheeky glance at her lips.
“Not everything in this damn world revolves around you, Alicia,” she replies in a low voice, but with a firmness that makes me swallow hard.
“No, not at all, of course not. The only things that revolve around me are emergency medical sessions, hyper-detailed confidential reports, and your wonderful daily lectures on discipline, order, and professional responsibility.”
Clara suddenly uncrosses her arms and takes a decisive step forward, obliterating any safe distance between us. The space separating us shrinks in a dangerously tempting way.
“The fact is, you’re the biggest financial investment this club has ever made in its entire history, and you’re acting recklessly, as if your body were made of titanium and indestructible.
Do you want to know how many players with your talent I’ve seen ruin their professional careers by doing exactly the same stupid thing? By denying what’s obvious to anyone.”
I let out a dry, humorless laugh, though inside, my heart begins to beat much harder and faster than I’m willing to admit out loud.
“My body is solely and exclusively my own business, Dr. Valle. I decide how far I push it.”
“Not when that whim directly compromises your performance on the field and the work of an entire team that depends on your goals,” she insists, fixing those dark eyes on me without looking away or even blinking.
“And certainly not when it’s within my power to prevent you from ending up on an operating table before the season even starts—all because of sheer stubbornness. ”
I take another step toward her, my chest almost brushing against hers in a purely defiant gesture. I want her to know I won’t back down.
“I’m going to tell you one thing very clearly, Clara.
For years, I’ve been listening to a whole bunch of people explain to me, down to the last detail, what they need from me.
Ambitious coaches, executives in suits, sponsors who only see numbers…
all of them convinced they know exactly how I should run, how I should breathe, and how I’m supposed to live my life.
So you’re going to have to forgive me if I’m not the least bit thrilled to add yet another authoritarian voice to my collection of sergeants. ”
She doesn’t back down. Not a single centimeter. She withstands the impact of my closeness with a composure that, for some obscure reason my brain prefers not to analyze, I like far more than I should.